


Dancing on my Own

by Corycides



Series: Hands On [5]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:06:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason Neville might be tolerated among the Rebels, but after everything his father has done he doesn't exactly feel welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing on my Own

There weren’t many women in the militia. Get pregnant and get out; it was the only get out clause other than death. The militia had been Jason’s world for as long as he could remember.

There were lots of women in the Rebellion though, big bellies, little kids tagging along and all. They didn’t smell any better than the men. Jason had always associated the smell of lilacs with femininity, but maybe that was just his mom.

They were still...distracting. Sometimes. Jason glanced sidelong at Nora, eyes lingering on pink lace and the tawny, sweat-dewed curve of her boob, as she worked on scavenging one working gun from three rust-ruined old ones. She had rough hands, all broken nails and scarred knuckles, but they were deft and competent as she deconstructed the guns.

He wondered what they'd feel like on him and his cock twitched hard under his jeans, fingers gone clumsy on the bullets he was packing. Gun-powder scattered over the table, brass shells clattering over the floor, and Nora gave him a dismissive look.

'I know you never went short on anything in the militia,' she snapped. 'We can't afford to waste ammunition. If you can't do something useful, just fuck off.'

Jason flushed red and his cock got harder, practically knocking the underside of the workbench. He brushed up the gunpowder and scuffled around, balls aching, to collect up the shells and dump them back to the table.

'I gotta go piss,' he said.

She gave him a look that was 90% of not-caring away from being rolled eyes. 'It's not school,' she said. 'You don't have to raise your hand.'

Bitch. Jason glared at the nape of her neck, half-imagining snapping it and half wondering what the fine hair that dusted the vulnerable patch of skin would feel like against his mouth. He ducked into one of the abandoned rooms and shoved his jeans down over his hips. Callused fingers pumped with impatient efficiency along his cock.

He tried to think about Nora – those scarred fingers cupping her boobs, calluses plucking at the lace. Or Charlie – her boobs weren't as big, but all he needed were those big blue eyes looking up at him like he was a hero, like he should be a hero.

It didn't work. Oh, it turned him on. The thought of touching that warm slice of bare belly between Charlie's shirt and her jeans, or bending Nora over that work-bench or all those shiny gold curls of Rachel Matheson wrapped around his fingers as he told him he was 'so much better than Monroe and Miles'. How those old men got either woman was beyond Jason.

As his balls tightened, pleasure dragging down into a clenched knot of heat and ache between his legs, he couldn't help but think of her. Because she wasn't just fantasy and wishful thinking. Her hair had smelled like honey and the wetness between her thighs tasted like heaven. After his second patrol she’d dragged him into an empty room in the base and fucked him against the wall, her hand over his mouth and her pussy tight around his cock.

It hadn’t been his first time, but it had felt like it. The first time with someone who wasn’t scared of his uniform, the first time with someone who didn’t give a fuck who his mom and dad were and the first time without Dad waiting outside in the brothel with tight eyes and flinty, hungry camaraderie.

‘Was she tight, boy? Did she taste sweet?’

Who the fuck said that? Who talked like that? Was it because Tom Neville – the good husband, the loyal husband – didn’t fuck whores, but wanted to? Or because it was another layer to his mask, just another ‘one of the boys’ at the whorehouse?

None of that had mattered with Rosie. It had been the first time for Jason the Rebel. Not the last. They’d fucked a couple of times after that. She’d slapped his ass afterwards and called him puddin’. It hadn’t meant anything. It meant a lot, maybe because it hadn’t meant anything.

Now she was dead – just like that – and he shouldn't be thinking of her while he panted and twisted his hand around his cock. It didn't stop him though.

He closed his eyes and came hot and sticky against his stomach, breathing raggedly through his nose. For a moment he didn't feel scared – of his dad, of death, of Miles, or failure – as he wiped his stomach and zipped his jeans back up.

That never lasted long.


End file.
